Seasons
by ScottyBaby
Summary: To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven. MarkRoger friendship.
1. War and Peace

A/N: Wow, I'm just pumping out the stories left and right here. This has been one that's been floating around in my head for a while now, and I wanted to start it while I was on Spring Break so that I could get a couple of chapters up quickly before I start school again. I based this story off of Ecclesiastes 3, the passges that are like "...a time to be born, a time to die; a time to laugh, and a time to weep..." and so on and so forth. If religion isn't your thing, you can say that this story was derived from the song "Turn, Turn, Turn" by The Byrds. Each chapter will have one of the themes and its opposite, like this one is War/Peace. Hope I didn't confuse you too much, and enjoy!

_

* * *

_

_A time of war..._

Mark cringed at the sound of glass shattering against too-thin walls, resting his head in his hands. He hated that sound; no matter how many times he'd heard it, he still couldn't get used to it. Waiting impatiently for the aspirin he'd taken to kick in, he massaged his temples with long fingers, rough with small cuts and calluses.

"Let me OUT!"

Turning to lie down flat along the length of the couch, Mark closed his eyes, wondering briefly what could have made that noise. The glass of milk he'd left outside of Roger's door yesterday afternoon, perhaps? It had been one of Roger's blue days, as Mark liked to categorize it. The guitarist had spent the entire day in bed, whimpering and shaking and mumbling things Mark couldn't understand. Mark remembered that Roger used to get up in the middle of the night and drink a glass of milk when he couldn't sleep, when he was restless and couldn't relax.

"Fuck! Let me OUT, Mark! LET….ME….OUT!"

Today was definitely a red day, Mark decided as he brought an arm over to cover his eyes. The pale candlelight that lit the room was even too much for his oncoming migraine. Funny, he thought, that Roger used to be concerned about his migraines. Now he was causing them.

"Mark! You can't DO this to me! You CAN'T! It's not RIGHT!"

Maybe it had been the glass from a picture frame. But which picture? Mark mentally scanned Roger's room. There was the picture of Collins, Roger, and him at Christmas that Maureen had taken, the one with the mistletoe, the red bow, and the ornament hanging from Mark's glasses……there was the one of Roger at his high schoolgraduation, with his mom and his little sister…..oh, there was the one of April and Roger outside of CBGB's. That might explain it.

"I HATE you! I fuckin' HATE you for doing this! I never said I wanted this! You can't FORCE me to do this!"

"You _did_ say you wanted this," Mark mumbled, almost inaudibly, to no one in particular. He wanted to remind Roger of that, to tell him the exact date and time that he had spoken the words because he remembered. However, he didn't try to reason with Roger on a red day. He just had to wait it out. Judging from the tone of Roger's voice and the way his insults were becoming repetitive, Mark reasoned that Roger had another twenty minutes before he ran out of steam. This was becoming so routine….

"I hate you, Mark! You don't understand! If you REALLY were my friend, you'd understand! You'd UNDERSTAND! Why don't you understand!"

There they were, the first signs of pleading. Mark hated it when Roger begged him, pleaded with him. He'd rather have an angry Roger throwing a mug at his head than a weak and shaking Roger asking tearfully for _just one more hit, Mark, I swear._

However, Mark could control a pleading Roger. He could take a pleading Roger into his arms and try his best to stop the shaking with soft whispers, the sweating with damp cloths, the vomiting with smooth touches. He knew he couldn't stop these things, but he could try. Trying was better than lying on a couch doing nothing.

He'd stopped trying with angry Roger. He was aware that Roger could beat the shit out of him when he was desperate for a hit (hell, Roger could probably beat the shit out him while he was half asleep), but that hadn't stopped him. What stopped him was the fact that when he'd been careless and left his camera in Roger's room, he'd barged in to find Roger mere seconds away from sending it into a wall.

True, Roger had realized what he'd been about to do. He'd returned the camera to Mark's safekeeping and had spent the rest of the day curled up on his mattress in tears (Mark had noticed that withdrawal had trigged Roger's already whirlwind emotions to go completely haywire). Mark realized, though, that if this drug could drive Roger to even _almost_ ruin something that Mark centered his entire life around, there would be no reasoning with him.

Mark cringed again as something else crashed against the wall. He lifted his head, double checking that his camera was sitting securely on the window ledge. It was. There was a loud _thud_ against the door. Mark silently begged anyone willing to listen that the metal table would be enough to keep Roger in.

Realizing that he'd subconsciously tuned out Roger's yelling, Mark sat up, dragging himself to sit on the floor next to Roger's door.

"...you don't know what its like, you don't know, you don't know, you don't _know_. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts so _fuckin'_ much, you can't even _imagine_. You don't even know, you can't understand, why don't you understand, why can't you just _please_ let me out? Please, Mark, _please._ Don't keep me in here by myself, don't, don't do this, don't _leave_ me here, don't leave me, _don't_….

Mark slowly pulled himself to his feet, ignoring the way his eyes watered as a result of the throbbing pain in his head. He ignored the way his throat constricted at the sudden strain of standing, the way his chest ached as he pushed the table out of the way.

"Mark…."

He cursed his bad knees as they shook and brought him sinking against the door, to the ground. He never could figure out why it hurt so much every time. Every time Roger waged this war on him, this mental battle. Attacking insults, defensive pleas, mind games and physical bruises and the scarring and the aching….

Mark leaned his ear against the door, hearing Roger's heavy breathing on the other side. He could tell Roger was pressed up against the door as well. He could almost feel the other's heartbeat, pulsing through his veins, pounding in his head and in his ears.

"Roger?" Mark was surprised at the sound of his own voice. Since when had he sounded so dry, so cracked and weak?

"Uh huh." As if it would be anyone else. He sounded completely out of breath and exhausted.

"Do you want some tea? Are you feeling up to eating?"

There was a moment of silence, where Mark figured that Roger was shaking his head, not realizing that Mark couldn't see him. "No."

"What do you want then?" As if he didn't know.

"Just one more, Mark. I can't do this. Just one more."

"Alright, then," Mark said, standing and wiping his eyes. _Damn migraines_. "I'll get you some milk."

* * *

_...and a time of peace._

Roger plucked random notes on his guitar, resisting the urge to cringe at how out of tune they sounded. He had been sitting in the same position for three hours, with his guitar resting in his lap, his back resting against the armrest of the couch, and his legs resting against Mark's (whose were resting against the back of the couch), and nothing but sour notes and a blank void in his mind had come of it.

With a loud and overdramatic sigh, he set his guitar gingerly on the floor, reaching out to grab his mug of coffee in the process. He closed both hands around it, savoring the warmth on his fingers and his palms, before taking a drink. Pulling the mug away from his mouth, he sighed again, staring into the black liquid pensively for a moment before setting the cup back on the ground. He lifted his guitar and played another note. A dissonant _twang_ echoed in response. Another sigh followed.

"For the sake of all that is good, Roger, stop sighing. It's the coffee, anyway."

Roger looked up from his guitar at Mark, who was sitting opposite of him, still buried within the pages of the book that Collins' had leant him a few days ago. Mark hadn't said a word or moved a muscle once in the past three hours, save the time he ventured into his room to get the blanket that he'd draped over both of their legs.

"What?" Roger asked, deigning to ignore Mark's first comment.

"That's what's wrong," Mark said, his voice monotone as he refused to lift his eyes from the yellowing pages. "The coffee's too black."

Roger reached out for his coffee mug and brought it up to his lips again, taking a mouthful and letting it soak into his taste buds. As he swallowed, a tangy bitterness lingered at the back of his throat. He nodded, placing the mug back down on the ground.

"Told you," Mark said, still not looking up. Roger rolled his eyes.

"I though you liked dark coffee."

"I do. You don't."

Roger couldn't deny this fact as he rested his head against the back of the couch. He left the guitar sitting in his lap, figuring it was a lost cause. His mind was a blur, anyway, too full of jumbled thoughts and tension. There were no song lyrics up there at the moment, no inspiration, no spark. Just memories….

"What?"

Blinking, Roger noticed that Mark was looking at him with a questioning gaze, his head turned slightly to the side. He realized he must have zoned out, and felt a slight blush rise to his cheeks.

"Nothing," he mumbled, scratching the back of his neck. "Just thinking."

"Oh no," Mark said, cracking the first smile Roger had seen from him all night. "That's never good."

Roger just shook his head, chuckling a little before closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

"Two heads are better than one," Mark's voice said. Roger heard the sound of a book shutting. "Care to share?"

Opening his eyes, Roger saw that Mark was leaning up, arms resting against bended knees. "Just, you know, stuff."

"Well is that all?" Mark asked sarcastically, laughing. "Because I can work with that."

Roger shrugged, the smile no longer on his face. They'd been through this so many times, he couldn't believe he was bringing it up again. "Just, past stuff. Stuff….I'm sorry for."

Mark's smile disappeared as well. He picked the book back up, searching for the page he'd been on. He talked without looking at Roger again. "We've been over this, Roger. There's nothing to _be_ sorry for."

"I know," Roger said, meaning he knew they'd been over this, not that there was nothing to be sorry for. Because there was. A _lot_, actually. "I can't help it."

"You never used to apologize for _anything_," Mark said, shaking his head into his book. Roger noticed that his eyes weren't moving, weren't following the words on the page. "Now I can't get you to stop."

"Yeah, well…." Roger didn't want to finish the sentence, because he knew _I don't have much time to apologize for anything anymore_ wouldn't go over well. He stared down at his hands, picking at his nails. "I just don't know why…."

"I _told_ you. There's nothing to forgive."

Roger tried to whisper _sure there is_ under his breath, but it got caught in his throat, leaving only a nonsensical mumble to escape his lips.

"Fine," Mark sighed, closing his book and tossing it onto the ground next to Roger's coffee. "I forgive you. For everything that you think you're guilty of, for everything that you think you've done, I forgive you. Is that better? Are you happy now?"

"Sure," Roger almost whispered, still staring determinedly at his fingers. "If you meant it."

What Roger expected was Mark to sigh and to pick his book back up, grumbling about how they weren't five years old anymore and how Roger just wouldn't believe him and how it was getting old. What he got was Mark, moving closer to him on the couch, taking his face between his hands and forcing their eyes to meet. Bright blue on dark green, intense and truthful.

"Roger Davis, I _forgive_ you. I accept your apology, and I forgive you for everything."

Roger couldn't do anything but nod, staring at Mark and letting his words soak into him, leaving, not a bitter aftertaste, but a sweet, honey-like coating. Mark smiled then, releasing Roger's face and standing, picking up the mug of coffee. He disappeared out of sight, and Roger heard the sounds of a refrigerator door and a carton of milk opening.

A minute later, Mark sat back down on the couch, handing Roger his mug and thumbing through the pages of his book again. Roger looked into the mug, noticing the liquid was no longer dark black, but rather, a lighter shade of brown, and took a drink. The coffee flowed through his mouth and throat smoothly, leaving nothing but a sweet taste on his tongue. It was pure and utter peaceful bliss.

Picking up his guitar, Roger spared one more glaceat Mark before plucking out the opening notes of Musetta's Waltz. A melodic and tuned buzz filled his ears. He smiled and continued to play.

* * *

Hope you liked. Next chapter: Love/Hate 


	2. Hate and Love

A/N: I think this is probably the fastest I've ever posted two consecutive chapters. There might be a little confusion with this one for those who are very familiar with the verse, so let me explain: I know it's supposed to go "A time to love, and a time to hate," but I thought switching them around would continue the theme and support the storyline better. A minor adjustment, I hope no one minds. Enjoy, and please review and tell me what you think! Thanks!

* * *

_A time to hate..._

"I hate the fall."

Mark looked up from his newspaper to find Roger lying upside down on the couch, a notebook resting on his stomach. He was randomly ripping out pages (some blank, others scribbled and doodled on), crumpling them up into little balls, and tossing them over his head and into the trash can. So far, Mark estimated that he'd made about three shots. The phone rang.

"Don't waste paper. And don't say that you hate things. It's not nice." He said, turning the page of his newspaper and taking a drink of his tea.

_Ring._

"I'm not wasting it, it's already used. And who are you, my mother?"

_Ring._

"You can dislike it severely. But don't say that you hate something if you really don't."

_Ring._

"Well, I _really_ hate the fall. It's so depressing, everything's dying. Are you gonna answer that?"

_Ring._

"No, are you?"

"No."

"_SPEAK!"_

"Hey, Mark and Roger, its….its Benny," said the voice on the answering machine. Mark stopped mid-drink, setting his newspaper down and resting his chin in his hand. Roger swung his legs around and sat up abruptly. "Sorry I haven't called in a while. I've just been….you know….busy."

Roger snorted, shaking his head. Mark waved his hand, motioning for him to be quiet.

"Anyway, I wanted to know if you guys would like to have dinner sometime….sometime soon, actually. We can meet at the Life, or somewhere else, it doesn't matter." A nervous laugh. "Price doesn't matter, its my treat. There are some things I need to discuss with you guys….it might not be the best of news, but my investor and I…."

"Why does he call his father-in-law his investor all the time?" Roger asked, half amused, half annoyed as Benny's voice talked on. "It's not like we don't know who he is."

"Shhh!"

"….and I know its not the best situation, but it's his decision, not mine. I know you guys would have some trouble coming up with the rent, so I thought we could work out a deal over dinner. It would help you, help me….help everyone. There's really no downside. So, give me a call as soon as possible, and we'll see what we can do."

"Well, isn't that just lovely?" Mark asked, folding his newspaper and dumping his tea into the sink as the recording clicked off.

"Yeah, fuckin' beautiful," Roger mumbled, chucking the notebook across the room and standing. He placed his hands on his hips, shaking his head. "Bastard. I hate him."

"What did I tell you?" Mark said. Roger looked up and smirked, but was surprised to find that Mark looked completely serious. "Don't say you hate something unless you're sure you do."

"Well, I'm pretty sure that I _do,_" Roger said, throwing his hands into the air. "I mean, he was one of our best friends. He meets a rich girl, not to mention he doesn't even tell us about her, then moves away and sells out one day without a moment's hesitation. The guy used to have morals."

"Selling out doesn't mean he doesn't have morals," Mark defended, pushing himself up to sit on the table. "It just means he's weak. He had trouble resisting temptation. You can't _hate_ him for that."

"Sure I can," Roger said, sinking back down into the couch cushions. "Besides, he completely turned his back on us. Just moved out one day without a word. And now, the _one_ promise he made to us, the _one_ thing he could do to help us out, he's taking away. He's breaking his word, you can't deny that."

Mark shook his head. "No, no I can't. But don't hate him."

"Sorry," Roger said, leaning back and closing his eyes. "But it's hard not to hate a guy who turned on us completely. Come on, Mark, you can't tell me you've never hated anyone before."

Mark shrugged, feeling heat rise to his cheeks as he stared at the ground. "I used to think I hated April."

Roger's eyes shot open, his face a mixture of mild anger and complete shock. He turned to glare at Mark. "What? Why?"

"Think about it, Roger," Mark said, not meeting Roger's eye. "She screwed up a lot of things."

"Yeah, but….but….you never…." Roger stuttered. He couldn't think of what to say.

"She got you hooked on drugs," Mark continued at Roger's lack of articulation. "She gave you the virus. And when she should have been there for you, should have supported you, she killed herself because she didn't want to deal with the consequences."

"But….you can't…..you…." Roger finally stopped speaking, crossing his arms across his chest and shaking his head. He appeared angry, but Mark saw the confusion and hurt in his eyes. "Well, thanks for telling me this _now_."

"Roger, I didn't think it was important to say," Mark looked up at Roger at last, only to have him avoid his gaze. "Because I _don't_ hate her."

Roger looked up in surprise, confused. "What? But you just _said_…."

"I just said that I _thought_ I hated her," Mark stressed. "I thought wrong."

"She wasn't all bad, you know," Roger said, uncrossing his arms and letting them fall to his sides. Mark nodded.

"I know. I can't think of skating in the park, having late night coffee binges, going to your shows….I can't think of those things and hate her. It's not right."

Roger fell silent. He didn't know what to say….didn't know if anything he could say would matter at this point. He felt guilt settle in the pit of his stomach; for what reason, he didn't know.

"Don't hate Benny, it's not worth it," Mark continued, hopping off the table. He wandered over to the couch, grabbing his camera and his scarf. "He's weak. April was weak. Don't blame them for that."

Roger nodded, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks. He watched as Mark put on his scarf. "Where are you going?"

"To film a little. Wanna come?"

"No thanks," Roger said, shaking his head. Mark nodded, heading for the door, but Roger spoke again. "Are you going to Benny's dinner?"

"Hell, no," Mark laughed. "I don't hate him, but I still think he's a lying, cheating, back stabbing son-of-a-bitch who doesn't deserve the time of day."

Roger let out a bark of laughter. "I'm glad we agree."

* * *

_...and a time to love._

As soon as the phone rang, Mark was up, out of his chair, and to the phone faster than what he thought was humanly possible. However, he hesitated as his hand reached out to grab the receiver.

_Do I answer it right away? Will I seem desperate to talk to him?_

Mark pulled his hand away. He didn't want to seem emotional, didn't want to let Roger know how much he missed him.

_If I answer after the machine, will it seem like I don't care that he's calling? That I'm too busy to even realize that he's gone?_

Mark didn't want that, either. He _did_ want Roger to know that he was thinking about him, still wishing him well after the fight they'd had before he left.

Maybe it wasn't Roger at all, he thought, crossing his arms across his chest. Maybe it was Maureen, calling to complain about her latest fight with Joanne. Maybe it was Collins, calling to check up, just to talk. He knew it probably wasn't Mimi; no one had heard from her in a while. Maybe it was Benny, wanting the rent early this month….

"_SPEAK!"_

"Hey, Mark. It's….Roger. I just….just wanted to call and check in, see how everything's been going. Um….I guess you're not home, then. Probably out filming, or….or something. When you get this, though, give me a call. I'd really like to…."

"Roger!" Mark finally picked up the phone, gripping it with both hands. "Hi!"

"Oh, hey," Roger's voice said, sounding a little startled at Mark's enthusiasm. "Didn't think you were home."

"Yeah, sorry, I just walked in the door," Mark lied, although it did soundlike he was out of breath. "So….how have you been?"

"I'm okay," Roger said, and Mark leaned against the side of the desk, twirling the phone cord in his hands. "It's been….a little rough. I've been making some money, though, playing on street corners and stuff."

"I thought you sold your guitar?" Mark asked, confused.

"Oh, I didn't tell you? Yeah, well I sold the car when I got here," Roger said, and Mark could hear the smile in his voice. "How was I supposed to make money if I didn't have a guitar? I didn't quite think that one through."

"Guess not," Mark chuckled. An awkward silence followed as Mark sat open mouthed, trying to get the words he wanted to say to come out. His throat, however, didn't think that was a very good idea, as it constricted and made it difficult to breathe.

"Hey…." Roger's voice began, at the exact time Mark finally managed to blurt out, "So…."

They both laughed nervously. Roger continued, apparently fearful of another awkward silence. "Go ahead."

"No, its okay," Mark said, shaking his head into the phone. "I was just going to ask….how the weather was….in Santa Fe."

_Smooth, Cohen. Real smooth._

"Oh," Roger sounded slightly disappointed. "Oh, it's….hot."

"Oh," Mark mumbled. He felt tongue tied, still gripping the phone tightly. "I figured. It's cold here."

"Yeah, it always is." Another silence. "How is….everyone?"

"Fine," Mark said, knowing what Roger actually meant. "They send their love."

"Well, send mine along as well," Roger said. Then, finally, "How's Mimi?"

"I don't know," Mark said. "I haven't seen her in a while."

"Oh. Okay."

Mark couldn't take it anymore. His shoulders slumped and he ran a hand through his hair, standing straight again. "Roger, what are you still doing there? Come home."

"Mark…." Roger's tone was exasperated. "I can't. I just can't, you wouldn't understand."

"Try me," Mark said, and Roger sighed.

"I have to write a song, Mark. I have to leave something behind, have to do….something."

"And you can't do that here?"

Roger didn't say anything after that. This conversation was so old, so worn out. They had it every time Roger called, and every time, it ended the same.

"Roger," Mark began again, when he realized there was going to be no response from the other end. "What are you afraid of? Falling in love? Committing? Being dumped? What?"

"Mark, I have to go. I have an interview with a guy….about a gig."

"No, you're not leaving!" Mark said, practically yelling into the phone. "We're finishing this conversation right now. You're _going_ to tell me what you're afraid of, why you won't come back when I can hear in your voice that you want to."

Roger sighed again. "It's complicated."

"What's so complicated about falling in love?"

"Nothing, that's the problem," Roger said. _Now we're getting somewhere._ "I just, needed to get away, before….before I did."

"Before you did what?"

"You know."

"Fell in love?" Mark asked, leaning against the table again. "Why? What's so wrong with that?"

"It's not that easy, Mark," Roger suddenly sounded sadder, lonelier than ever. "I don't….want to hurt her. And I don't…."

"Want to get hurt," Mark finished for him. "No one does. But would it be worth it? Would the love that came before be worth the pain that would follow? That's what you have to decide. You know she loves you. You _know_ she doesn't love Benny."

"I know," Roger whispered. "I know. I'm trying, Mark, trying to figure this out."

"Come home, let me help you figure it out," Mark didn't see the hurt in asking again.

"I will, soon," Roger said. "I just need some time alone. It's not permanent."

"I know," Mark said, standing again. "I better let you go."

"Okay. I'll call again. Soon. I promise."

"Alright," Mark sighed. At least they'd gotten somewhere this time. "And Roger?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't think about regret, okay? Just, think about what your heart tells you."

"Okay." Roger took a deep breath, exhaling loudly. "Bye, Mark."

"Bye."

Mark hung up the phone, sighing and sitting down against the wall. The silence in the loft was almost deafening. He remembered when it was too full, when Collins, Maureen, Benny, Roger, and he had all lived together. It was always loud then.

Maureen left, and it was just the boys. That wasn't a problem. Mark didn't exactly want her around all the time anyway.

Benny left, and Mark was still okay with that. They hadn't really talked to Benny much anymore. He was always gone.

Collins left, and Mark was sad. He liked Collins. Collins was one of his best friends.

Roger left, and Mark didn't think he could handle it much longer. He didn't do alone very well. Roger was his best friend. He'd always been there.

Mark couldn't help but think that, eventually, this was how it was going to be all the time. Quiet, empty, lonely….

_Only when they're gone,_ Mark thought bitterly as he stood, _there won't be any phone calls, either._

_

* * *

_

Next chapter: keep silence/speak


	3. Keep Silence and Speak

A/N: Well, after a brief hiatus (including two weeks of world traveling and more than two weeks of sitting on my lazy ass doing nothing because its SUMMER, for pete's sake!), I'm back. The next chapter is already in the works, no huge wait again. Sorry about that. Enjoy!

* * *

_A time to keep silence…._

Since the first day Mark laid eyes on him, Roger had always been a whirlwind of emotions. His green eyes never lacked some kind of intense feeling: blazing emerald if he was angry, deep and dark if he was sad or upset, dancing jade if he was laughing, happy. True, most teenagers experience drastic mood swings, hormonal imbalances that leave them drunk on life one moment and ready to end it the next. Mark always knew, though, that Roger felt things deeper than most kids their age. When Roger was happy, he laughed fully, head thrown back, mouth open. When Roger was angry, he fumed, fists clenched, body trembling, jaw set. When Roger was upset, he cried, tears pooling at the corners of pain filled eyes.

Mark, in their long history together, had witnessed almost every emotion Roger had to offer. However, Mark had never seen Roger like _this_.

It was three in the morning, and Roger was laying on his side, motionless, legs curled up so that his stocking feet would not be exposed to the cool night air. The heat was working, though, and Mark thanked God for small blessings, because surely they'd all freeze like this in the frigid November air if it wasn't. He pulled the blanket a littlehigher across Roger's shoulders, placing his hand back around Roger's gently. He glanced briefly at Collins, who rested on the other side of the bed, head propped up in one hand, rubbing small circles across Roger's back.

Mark laid his head back down onto the flat pillow, staring into Roger's eyes and feeling a lump gather in his throat. Those eyes, usually so fully of passion, were dead. Empty. Completely void of….anything. Not even when he was high did Roger's eyes get this glassy, this cloudy and unseeing. Mark lifted his other hand, running it through matted hair before resting it on the side of Roger's head tenderly.

"Roger?" he asked, his voice soft so as not to startle anyone. No one had spoken for at least an hour. "Roger, are you alright? Do you need anything?"

Silence. Roger blinked, slowly, and his head twitched slightly. "Stay."

"Of course," Mark said, not surprised at how rough Roger's voice sounded. It had been a long night….

Mark regretted that he was the one to find April. He had been relieved, at first, that Roger hadn't been the one to stumble into the bathroom to find his dead girlfriend bleeding on the floor. However, Mark knew that he hadn't helped the situation any. He'd panicked. Things like this didn't happen in real life. Mark wrote about things like this in his screenplays. He watched things like this in movies. This….this didn't happen to him.

The night had been so achingly normal, more normal than _any_ night had been in a long time. Collins was home; he was leaving for MIT to teach philosophy second semester, but for now he was lounging on the couch, reading _How to Talk Dirty and Influence People_ for the hundredth time and drinking whatever alcohol was left in the loft. Benny was out with Allison (or Muffy, as he so fondly like to call her), Roger was out buying groceries with the money he'd made at his latest gig, Maureen was….well, God knows where Maureen was anymore, and Mark was writing.

His latest screenplay was almost finished, and he could feel the excitement bubbling up in his stomach, making his pen fly across the page with an ease and speed that he hadn't felt in _so long_. This was it, he knew it. This was his masterpiece, his golden ticket, the moment he'd been waiting for. Mark just _knew_ that this screenplay would sell.

After four hours of being shut up in his room, watching nothing but black letters form on white lined paper, his eyes were beginning to blur. He set the pen down, taking his glasses off and rubbing the bridge of his nose. He could feel the beginnings of a slight tension headache forming, but still couldn't knock the smile off his face.

_I deserve a break,_ Mark thought, standing and stretching before heading towards the bathroom. He needed a couple of aspirin, first, before his headache increased and he couldn't finish his work tonight. Nothing would stand in his way.

Within seconds, however, the screenplay was the furthest thing from Mark's mind. He could only think in fragments…._God_…._April_…._dead_…._blood_….

…._help_….

He should have called Collins, should have called 911, should have told someone _something_. However, when Roger announced his arrival with his bag of groceries, Mark was on his hands and knees, scrubbing the blood from the bathroom floor with April's body lying limply in the bathtub. Outside of that little room, nothing was wrong. Everything was normal. He could fix this. He could fix this before Roger found out.

Mark shut his eyes, forcing his thoughts to return to the present. He couldn't change how stupid he'd been, how irrational his thoughts were. No one was blaming him, as of yet. He needed to focus on Roger, right now. Roger, who'd choked on his own words when he found his girlfriend dead and his best friend slumped on his knees with blood on his hands. Roger, who'd tried to break everything in his room before Collins could get control. Roger….who'd cried himself sick, sobbing and yelling until he threw up whatever he'd eaten onto the floor beside his bed. Who was now shivering in Mark's bed, between his two roommates, clutching his best friend's hand like it was the only thing keeping him from following April to the grave.

Mark's thoughts suddenly turned to the slip of paper in his back pocket. It had been something of an impulse, grabbing the scrap, reading it, hiding it away before it could become true. Before it was real. Before Roger actually had….

He felt the lump in his throat again, and looked down to see that Roger had drifted into a restless state of unconsciousness. He propped himself up on his elbows, slipping his hand out of Roger's carefully. Roger made a small noise of protest, shifted, and silenced. He motioned silently for Collins to follow him into the hallway.

Mark said nothing after they'd shut the door to his room, just pulled the paper from his pocket and handed it to Collins, rubbing a hand over his eyes. _We have AIDS_. The letters were burned into his brain. He couldn't finish his screenplay now. He knew that if he tried to write, only three words would appear on the paper, black and messy. _We_…._have_….

"AIDS," Collins whispered, shaking his head. He shrugged then, slipping the paper into his own back pocket. "We don't know…."

"What the hell does it matter?" Mark spat, his voice low. Tears were welling his eyes, but he refused to cry. _Screw sensitivity._ _What the fuck will sensitivity do now?_ "It's a death sentence, either way."

Collins shot Mark a disappointed look, but didn't comment further. He sighed, crossing his arms across his chest and leaning against the wall. He tipped his head back, closing his eyes momentarily. "We don't tell him yet."

"We can't," Mark said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Who knows what he'll do."

Collins nodded. An uneasy silence fell between the two men.

"So…." Mark started, eyes shifting back to his bedroom door. "What do we do now?"

"We stay with Roger," Collins said, moving back towards the room. "We keep this a secret until….its right to tell him."

"When? When will it be right to tell him?"

Collins stopped, gazing back at Mark with an odd look in his eyes. "Never. It'll never be right for him. We….have to decide."

Mark nodded and watched Collins slip quietly back into his bedroom, wondering how and when it would ever be right to deliver a death sentence to his best friend. He figured there was only once instance….

_When April comes back to do it herself.

* * *

_

…._and a time to speak._

"Steve."

"Gordon."

"Ali."

"Pam."

"Sue."

"Angel."

"Collins."

"Um….Roger. I'm….Roger."

"Mark. Back again."

"And I'm Paul. Who would like to begin today?"

Roger kept his eyes glued to the floor, picking nervously at his nails and tapping his foot at a steady rhythm. He had been to three of these Life Support meetings that Collins and Angel and even Mark raved about, and he still didn't feel any less awkward than the first time he'd walked in. Collins insisted that once he got up and said something, _anything_, things would get a lot easier. Roger didn't see how that was possible.

The silence made Roger's palms start to sweat, and he could feel about a hundred pairs of eyes glued to the top of his head. His foot started to bounce a little faster. Someone coughed. Angel shifted. Mark rewound his camera. Collins' elbow came lightly into contact with the side of his stomach, and he felt like he jumped a mile out of his chair.

_Jesus, Davis, get a grip. You were a fuckin' rock star once. On stage. Hundreds of people. Strangers. Screaming. All eyes on you._

"Um…." He began to mumble, instantly regretting it, because when he looked up, everyone's eyes _were_ on him. Watching him. Waiting for him to say something. Anything. "Um….I don't…."

"You don't have to be nervous, Roger," Paul said, and Roger almost snorted at him. _Yeah, coming from the guy who's done this a million times._ "We're all your friends. We just want to know a little bit about you."

"Okay," Roger said, standing and glancing back at Collins. Collins gave him a thumbs up, as Angel waved and smiled next to him. He glanced up at Mark, who nodded furiously, rewinding his camera with renewed speed. "Okay, well, I'm Roger Davis."

_Shit, they know that already._ _Come on, think, don't be an idiot._

"I….live with Collins and Mark, and I….I'm HIV positive." _Well, that wasn't so bad, was it?_ Roger looked around, noticing that everyone was still silent, looking at him. Waiting for him to continue.

"I….uh….I used to be in a rock band, called the Well Hungarians…."

"Really?" Pam spoke up suddenly. "I saw one of your shows. At CBGB's?"

"Yeah," Roger smiled. "Yeah, we played there."

"You guys were good."

"Thanks," Roger said, and Pam gave him an encouraging smile. _Go on._ "Yeah, well, I met my girlfriend….ex…..girlfriend, April, there. At a show. We, uh, we started going out almost right away, and….."

Roger paused, looking up at Mark, whose camera was lowered, no longer running. He was staring at Roger, eyes focused and bottom lip caught between his teeth. He looked back down to Collins, who patted his arm silently.

"Well, she was…..April was….a junkie. Addicted to heroin," Roger laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "She introduced me to the wonderful world of powder, lighters and needles. I don't know how I got the virus….through her…..through the needles…..both. It doesn't matter. She's gone now."

"What happened?" Angel asked, smiling sympathetically. Roger wondered silently if she really didn't know, if Collins hadn't told her, or if she was just trying to give him a little push forward.

"She committed suicide," Roger found this suddenly easier to say. Like a knot in his chest had just been untied. "She slit her wrists….in the bathroom. Left a note. _We've got AIDS._"

There was silence, then, but Roger suddenly found that he was slightly less uncomfortable. _Funny,_ he thought, glancing around at nine pairs of understanding eyes. _Now that they know my baggage, everything is_…._easier._

"I actually wanted to ask a….a favor, I guess," he said, and everyone nodded.

"Of course, Roger," Paul said, smiling. "All you have to do is ask."

"I was wondering if I could bring my….friend…..Mimi….to one of these meetings with me. She's….addicted, like I used to be and it….scares me."

"Everyone is invited to our meetings, Roger," Paul said, and everyone nodded in agreement again. "I think I speak for all of us when I say that we would be glad to offer Mimi….and yourself….all the support you need."

"I….really appreciate that," Roger said, smiling. He suddenly noticed that he was still standing, and sat down quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. Collins patted his shoulder, and Angel blew him a kiss. Across the room, Mark's eyes said everything. _I'm so proud of you._

Roger took a deep breath, rubbing his palms against his thighs, wiping the sweat on his jeans. He smiled, feeling his arms relax, the muscles in his stomach loosen, the _world_ being lifted off his shoulders. _Fucking Collins, maybe he was right_.

"Thank you, Roger. Who would like to go next?"

* * *

Next Chapter: keep/throw away 


End file.
